


Flesh And Bone All Traveling Home

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Can Be Read As Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Death, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, Humour, John in Afghanistan, John in the Army, John invades Afghanistan, John is a good doctor, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Study in Pink, Telepathy is boring, Winglock, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a desolate night in Afghanistan, while watching over a dying soldier, John Watson meets an angel of death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh And Bone All Traveling Home

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! This is a strange little thing I've been working on the side of editing "Stress Fractures". I thought a Halloweenish release might fit the content. This is very different to what I usually write, a fun little experience in building a supernatural alternate universe.
> 
> The story contains quite graphic depictions of illness and injury. There's also some fun being poked at Christian theology so if you think that might offend your religious views you might want to steer clear.
> 
> That being said, enjoy!

\-----------------------------------------------

 _He who binds to himself a joy_  
_Does the winged life destroy_  
_But he who kisses the joy as it flies_  
_Lives in eternity's sun rise._  
_\- William Blake_

\-----------------------------------------------

 

 **Zarghun Shar, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan**  
**August 2009**

A chilly wind is making the corners of the fabric roof flap. Inside this makeshift hospital tent, lit only by the dim gloom of floor-level LED lighting, sits Dr John Watson on a most uncomfortable foldable chair.

Next to him, on a temporary bed created by pushing two instrument trolleys together, lays the mostly already dead Private Greenway of the British Armed Forces.

The flick of the wrist, which John is using to scare away the sandflies from the congealed blood adorning the Private's stump of a leg, have become an automated gesture during this already hours-long vigil. The battery-powered fans had quit on the platoon days earlier, and all that they can now use to fend off insects and cool off in the afternoon are paper fans created from unused letter paper and ripped-up newspapers.

The dismal living conditions John is already quite used to, but not all this death. 

From a doctor's point of view, there is no glory in dying or suffering an injury on the battlefield. Help and comfort are hard to come by.

John pushes his shoulder blades together and bends back his head, eyes closed. His neck is developing a serious crick, but leaving the tent is not an option. His battle nurse had offered to take over, but John knows that he has to do this himself. It's his patient. His failure. 

He feels he hadn't made enough of an effort, not argued his point aggressively enough when casualties were being triaged for the airlifts. Private Greenway had been judged to be a hopeless case and John knew that hopeless cases should not be granted precious supplies and space on already scarce and dangerous flights out of the province.

Still, John thinks Private Greenway would probably have preferred to be shot out of the sky by the insurgents to slowly succumbing to a septic infection with blood slowly trickling out of his numerous IED shrapnel wounds.

John keeps vigil, forcing himself to face the consequences of the decisions he has been making every day ever since they got stuck between enemy lines. 

It isn't easy, being a doctor without a hospital and without the proper equipment needed to try and maintain standards even remotely approaching Western medicine in the 21st century. John knows he should cut himself some slack here but he can't while he can still hear the raspy, agonized breathing of Private Greenway on this hospital bed that isn't in a hospital. Or even a bed.

While John knows it would likely be more useful to spare the last of the morphine, he still breaks open a vial and draws the contents into a syringe. It's not a sterile one - he has used it on another patient that same afternoon and it has been sitting in his sand-filled pocked all day, but Private Greenway doesn't have time to develop an infection or a bloodclot from a contaminated piece of plastic. He's dying already anyway. Besides, the unit has run out of sterile syringes so the point is moot. 

John injects the morphine into the IV port on the man's arm, and after a minute the patient's breathing becomes shallower but less raspy.

John realizes he hasn't even written any patient record notes. Not a word, even though he has seen seventeen patients, ten of whom have been locals desperately seeking aid. They have nothing resembling public healthcare in these provinces. They have old wives' remedies, time and hardy immune systems. Ailments needing surgery or antibiotics are likely to result in death. Infant mortality rate is 68 ouf ot a thousand. It is a lawless desert run by tribesmen.

This world is far from the reasonable, normal, proper existence of a typical Englishman. Still, John doesn't miss home. Missing it is a luxury he can't afford right now if he's to survive with his wits intact.

He reaches out for his backpack and rummages around to find a pencil. He writes down the Private's name, gently pries the man's dog tags out of his collar to find his ID number and records the course of the illness with a few lines on a sheet of grid paper ripped from a pad. He does not take the dog tags off the patient's neck yet. That you only do to the dead.

A sudden claustrophobia hits. Extreme exhaustion sometimes brings out these sudden spells of not being quite certain where he is, when and why. John kneads his eyes with his knuckles, forcing sleep out of his system. 

The flapping of the tent fabric manages to drown out whatever sounds his fellow soldiers might be making while sleeping in a nearby tent. There are just twelve of them here now. John is not certain whether he would have been forced to stay had he requested an airlift out. It's not like he has anything better to do or anywhere else to be. The level of danger never affects his decision-making all that much. Besides, the whole country is a steam kettle ready to blow, nowhere is exactly safe. At least here they have the desert to shield them from the more comfort-seeking insurgents keeping court in the cities. Those usually had the most extensive armouries.

Outside the tent the desert wind whispers and a sound of some small animal scratching the sand reminds John that he's not the only living thing awake in these parts.

Private Greenway makes a gurgling sound as pinkish froth begins to pour out of his mouth and nostrils. The septic shock has finally overwhelmed his heart's capacity to function and pulmonary oedema is grabbing hold. John digs out his well-used handkerchief from the breast pocket of his khaki vest and wipes the froth away. It's to no avail - there's more coming up. He lets his hand fall and drops the handkerchief down onto the raked patch of sand that those in charge of putting up these tents had optimistically referred to as the floor.

John stands up when he hears another scratching noise. Or perhaps not scratching, per se - more of a quiet flap. A bit like the owls that John has occasonally spotted hunting for mice during the short twilight of the evenings. 

John leans out of the tent, holding onto the poles of the doorway as he peers out into the darkness.

The stars are out and they look as magnificent as ever. There's no moon, but the starlight is bright here since no city lights dim their glow. 

At first John can't see anything that could possibly be making the faint flapping sound still tickling his hears, until he realizes that what he's looking at is as black as the darkness. He can only make out the edges of the thing as it - whatever it is - blocks stars from his view as it moves across the sky. 

It's bigger than an owl, that's for sure.

Suddenly, the wind stops. The incessant chirping of the crickets and the cicadas present even during windy nights like this are suddenly quiet as well. It's like time itself has stopped. 

The thing descending from the skies lands on the sand some twenty metres away from John with a faint thud.

He still can't make out much of it in the darkness, his vision still half blinded by the brighter light inside the tent. He leans down to dim the LED lights until they only cast a dim glow.

Private Greenway is still breathing but John recognizes his breath sounds to be merely agonal breaths caused by the last firing neurons of his brainstem trying to put up a fight. The Private is mere minutes from death.

John steps back into the tent from the opening serving as a doorway when he hears footsteps in the sand. They're rhytmic, determined and fast. And they're approaching the tent.

John briefly contemplates hiding behind something before the intruder reaches the tent but there isn't really anything for him to get behind. And he's left his gun in his bunk. Murphy's law.

This visitor can't be an insurgent, can it? They can't have developed silent jetpacks? John has to nearly stifle a giggle in his exhausted state of mind. Perhaps a parachute, then?

This is mental, really. What could possibly fly and then walk like a man? He must be losing it.

Since no other options are really presenting themselves, John straightens his spine and positions himself between the doorway and his patient. Let it be known that Dr John Watson never abandoned his duty.

The footsteps close the last bits of distance to the tent and pause at the doorway. John hears a short swishing sound, a bit like John's grandmother stretching freshly laundered bedsheets to straighten out their creases. John holds his breath without even realizing.

A man walks in. He's tall, all dressed in black. Dressed quite formally, even - not what one would expect to see in the middle of the desert. Smart shiny shoes, black dress shirt, well-tailored black trousers. Black hair, curly as a mop. Complexion pale-ish but very much human. Eyes observant, curious even, their colour obscured by the dim lighting. 

The man halts when he spots John and cocks his head to the side, eyes widening in surprise.

They stare at one another for awhile, neither wanting to make the first move. Finally, the man clad in black speaks.

"You're not dead."

This is not a conversation opener John would have picked.

"That's -- a good thing, then?" John stammers. 

The man clad in black regards him with mild amusement.

John lets himself relax slightly. At least this strange intruder doesn't seem to be armed. There is no space for a hidden holster in that tight-fitting shirt. Probably not in those carefully tailored pants, either.

The man then spots the now completely silent remains of Private Greenway on the gurney. "Ah!" he exclaims, clearly relieved and even excited in a manner that to John seems quite morbid. "It seems that I am in the right coordinates after all."

The man then seems to remember John's existence again and crosses his arms. "Explain yourself."

John purses his lips. This man has no uniform but speaks flawless British English. He can't be secret service, can he? Maybe it was some sort of an experimental parachute that the man had used to descend?

"Dr John Watson, Captain in the Fifth---"

"--Northumberland Fusiliers, I know," the man rattles, looking suddenly annoyed. "But what are you doing _here_, presently, in this tent?"

"My job, I'd assumed."

"You weren't supposed to see me," the man tells him in an accusing tone.

"Well maybe you should have been more careful, then," John suggests. He's not about to take a bollocking from a secret agent who's bad at his job. Not like it's John fault is the man failed his stealth classes.

Suddenly, the man looks exasperated and runs a hand through his hair. "Damnit, damnit, they never said I'd need to---"

John glances at Private Greenway. The man is now gone, his corpse silent and unmoving. That means John can dedicate his full concentration to this somewhat annoying visitor. At least it's a distraction from his altogether dismal day.

"How about you explain it to me, then?" John suggests.

The man in black looks at his as though he thinks John is a bit daft. "Well, since it can't really be helped, why not. You were not supposed to see me. I was supposed to do this," the man says, looks up while closing his eyes, and fades out from view.

John stumbles backwards and bumps the back of his thighs onto the makeshift hospital bed. 

The man in black has disappeared. Into thin air.

This is mental. John is mental. The whole world is mental. It's all going to hell, basically.

John then heards the sound of fingers snapping, and the strange man suddenly reappears. 

John's pupils widen. The man looks the same as before but this time, he is framed by an immense set of black-feathered wings.

John giggles. If he's going crazy he might as well just go along with it. 

"You're an angel," John blurts out, smiling like the idiot that he feels like.

The man, creature, whatever it is, looks at John as though the doctor is making a big deal out of nothing. 

His black wings are carefully folded away in a manner very similar to how John has seen whooping swans do in the zoo. The edges bend towards the torso, the longest feathers pressing into a shape resembling the fletching of an arrow and then the entire wings push together behind the man's back, hidden from view.

John fights the urge to step closer and get a better look. 

The creature looks amused. "Go on, then. It's what they all want when they see them."

John circles around the creature to stand behind it, and reaches out with his fingers to gently touch the black feathers. Their colour seems to reflect the dim blue LED lighting, appearing inky. The feathers feels silky under John's fingers. He runs his hand along the edge on the arch of the right wing towards the ground. There's clearly a tremendous set of powerful muscles underneath.

"Fireproof, acid proof, not unbreakable and they gather a lot of dust when flying through volcanic areas," the creature lists.

John nods and then steps back, slightly embarrassed by his enthusiasm to touch the wings. He reclaims his position beside the corpse.

"Are you here for him, then?" John enquires.

The creature raises its brows. "That is quite astute, even for a soldier," it mocks.

"Doctor."

"The medical community has never managed to impress me with their mental aquities. May I?" He points a finger at the earthly remains of Private Greenway.

John steps aside and spreads his arms. "Go ahead."

The creature now stands between him and the corpse, arms moving. John hears a sort of a sigh, and a faintly glowing white ball of light ascends from the corpse and slowly floats up through the tent ceiling.

The sound of the cicadas and the crickets returns. So does the wind. 

To John the corpse doesn't look much different but he knows that something gravely important has just taken place. 

"Time stops between death and the Departing," the angel explains, even though John has a chance to voice any questions. 

"Are you sure I'm actually allowed to see what just happened?" John asks, remembering the annoyance of the creature some time earlier when it had realized John had accidentally witnessed its arrival.

"I already made the mistake of revealing myself to you so the damage is basically done. As a doctor I assume you are accustomed to keeping your mouth shut. You're not the first one to witness this, and usually those who speak about it afterwards are dismissed as lunatics." 

"What should I call you?" John asks, suddenly feeling slightly emboldened.

The creature smiles crookedly. "Sherlock."

"That's an odd name for an angel," John replies, sitting down on his chair. 

"An angel of death, to be precise. What would you have preferred, then? Uriel? Michael? Lucifer? Or that idiot Gabriel? Archangels don't do deaths, you know. At least not for nobodies." 

John swallows and glances at what's left of Greenway. "He wasn't a nobody. He was a good man. No one deserves to die alone," he hastily adds, although he's not sure why.

"So his loyal doctor stays and keeps vigil, even though the man is beyond help? You must be one, then, too?"

"One what?"

"A good man?" The angel suggests. 

John huffs. "Not my call. Besides, I don't think I've been at my best game lately. I failed him. I've failed a lot of things lately."

"Oh please," the angel scoffs, "Not another martyr. I hate those. You didn't fail, you merely reached the limits of modern medical science. It is quite self-indulgent to think that it is your fault that the IED wrecked him to such extent that your ill-equipped and overworked healthcare unit here could have ever done anything to save him. If you want to know, you made the right call, recommending others for the medevac instead of him. Without you, I'd have had more clients today."

John is taken aback. "Thanks, I guess. Not sure if you're supposed to make me privy to those sorts of things either, but thanks."

"You're lecturing me on rules even though I'm revealing immortal secrets of life and death to you? They don't exactly give you a lot of pointers when they make you do this thing, you know. The training they give you is a joke, really. Even Internet trolls are better organized than this heavenly lot."

John gets an epiphany. "Hold on - how did you know all that about the medevacs, exactly? Have you been following me?"

"No. I can read your thoughts." The angel's expression is deadpan.

"No way." John looks sceptical. 

The angel rolls its eyes. "The fact that I just separated someone's soul from their body only warrants a shrug, but telepathy seems incredible? You are not a man of logic."

"Prove it."

The angel looks into his eyes and frowns and then steeples his fingertips under his chin thoughtfully. "You are trying to think of a chimpanzee riding a tricycle but you keep getting distracted by the realization that I look quite fit and you keep wondering if angels have, quote 'normal bits' and you feel guilty because you somehow think these sorts of questions will get you into trouble. In actuality you don't feel guilty because of any sorts of religious devotion but because you're deeply closeted - somehow you don't want to end up like your alcoholic brother even though I fail to see what that has to do with your sexual orientation."

John gapes. "You're--- It's not-- It's not a brother, it's a sister," he finally mumbles.

The angel looks indignant. "Sister. There's always something. Well, anyway, you shouldn't worry about getting struck by lightning - it's not like you can help the Neanderthal tendencies of your brain to focus on primal needs when you are this exhausted and you haven't had sex for thirteen months. Perfectly normal, really, under the circumstances."

John crosses his arms. "Neanderthal. You make me sound like an idiot."

Sherlock the angel sighs. "Most people are idiots. Not you, though," he pointedly adds.

"I assume angels are immune to these sorts of neanderthal hysterics, then?"

"Despite my current predicament, I assure you I am quite human. I was not born this way." 

"You haven't always been an---- angel of death, then?" John still wants to laugh every time that word comes up. He's not sure if he's ever believed in God. He's still not sure he does. This Sherlock creature doesn't seem all that holy, really.

"I used to be a consulting detective. Quite good at it, really. Until this taxi driver bested me." There's a hint of regret in the angel's voice.

"Drove over you?" John suggests deadpan. This earns him a piercing glare.

"He gave me a puzzle to solve, but it was rigged. Long story short, that was the end of my mortal period. And then it turns out they don't really appreciate it when you give them, I quote verbatim, 'sass' at the entrance gates."

John blinks. "What do you mean, 'entrance gates'?"

The angel widens his eyes in mock shock. "Really, Dr Watson, you are doing no favours to the reputation of the medical community. Which gates, pray tell, could I possibly be referring to?"

John bursts out laughing. "You're actually saying that they didn't let you in because you were too annoying?"

The angel crosses his arms. "Not the way I would have described it. But in essence, yes. They thought that I needed a lesson."

John wipes his eyes, still laughing. "This isn't real."

"Well you can continue telling yourself that if it helps."

"So this is some sort of biblical detention, then? This angel of death business?"

"They described it as "teaching me about the core of humanity"."

"Which is?"

The angel shrugs. "Haven't the foggiest. Haven't found it yet."

John stretches his back and steal a glance at the black pair of wings again. "What's it like, then?"

Sherlock looks regretful. "No one's ever asked before. Granted, they've been quite preoccupied with the dying bit but still. It's boring. And lonely. Not a lot of people to talk to besides these winger humourless workaholics. There are not that many who have been assigned the task like me instead of being purposefully created into this sort of an existence." 

"The telepathy thing must be a bit of fun," John suggests.  
"It was at first but then you realize it takes all the mystery away. No deductions to be made." The angel looks sad, as though he's lost something important.

John doesn't know what to say.

The angel then straightens his spine. "Anyway, gotta dash. I'm sure they have another hapless mortal lined up already for me to harvest."

"Harvest?" John looks taken aback.

"Figure of speech. Don't worry, your friend here will be living it up with St Peter in no time. Assuming he's going upstairs and not the lower floors. Anyway, why on Earth would you stay here instead of your comfortable bunk next to all those cosy unwashed bodies of her Majesty's finest?"

"I needed to be here. If I feel like crap now, then he felt infinitely worse," John nods at Private Greenway's corpse.

Realization dawns on the angel's face. "Right. Hippocratic oath and all that."

John looks slightly apprehensive. "No. Well yeah, that too, but I just--- It's just something I wanted to do."

The angel looks like it's attempting to process this but isn't quite getting the hang of it.

John wants to ask more but somehow suspects it might not be good for his mental health. In the morning he will probably try dismiss this whole thing as heatstroke anyway.

"Sherlock?" he asks when the angel turns to leave. "Can you tell my---- Nevermind," John swallows the last of the request that's suddenly occurred to him.

The angel looks apologetic. "Sorry, not allowed, those sorts of things. Angel of death, not your errand boy."

"Sorry, sorry," John stammers.

"No harm, no foul. Need to be going now."

John can't keep his jaw from dropping as he sees those stunning pitch black wings spread out into their full wingspan. 

John steps aside to let the angel, Sherlock, whatever its name was - leave the tent. The wings are so big he has to step out sideways. John wonders why he hadn't left them folded until he got out of the tent. Maybe he'd wanted to award John a final glance in the better-lit tent interior?

Before he walks out into the dimly starlit darkness, the angel turns his head and smiles at John over his shoulder. "Be seeing you later, Doctor Watson."

John says nothing, just wonders what the phrase meant. A hope? A promise? A statement of fact? Something about it makes the hairs on the back of John's neck stand up.

He is a surgeon in a war zone, after all. There will probably be more patients meeting their demise under his watch. John feels terrible as he realizes that the thought of never again seeing this person, creature, whatever, makes him sad, even though a reunion would in all likelihood mean another innocent life lost.

The black wings extend and tense, and with a powerful thrust they soon propel the strange creature up towards the stars. 

John remains there, standing beneath the stars, until the sun begins to rise.

 

 

 

 **Four months later**  
**The village of Birjand, Helmand Province, Afghanistan**

John's ears ring with the explosions. Get up, get up, get up, you're too far behind.

Gunfire pings into the rocks right next to him. There are shapes running, voices yelling. He realizes he must be concussed. His helmet is gone. They could get a clear shot into his head right now. It would all be over.

No. He has work to do. Your eyes are fine, ignore the fucking ringing in the ears. Get up get up getup - -

He learns forward when the vertigo hits and his stomach lurches with nausea. He leans back, dry-heaving, aware that every inch that he raises himself off from the ground where he's lying behind some broken barrels is a gamble on his life. Russian roulette.

John rolls onto his stomach and starts crawling as fast as he can towards where he hopes the others might be. He can't hear any familiar voices since he can't hear anything besides a high-pitched whine anyway. 

IED, ambush, his brain is telling him, but it's all useless. He doesn't need information about the recent past, he needs all that can be known about the now.

He scrambles behind a leafless, dry bush that offers little cover. Without his hearing, it's hard to make out where his comrades are. 

He leans out from the cover and then the bullet hits.

It's a searing, tearing, scorching, burning pain the likes of which he has never experienced. Agony and shock blur his vision and he can't even draw a breath. He somehow forces himself to drop down back behind the bush, and gasping for air. 

The sun is suddenly brighter and he can't focus on anything else. There's something wet and warm on his neck that is also trickling down his chest. He touches it with a shaking finger and brings the finger up near his nose. It takes him a second to recognize that it's blood.

Suddenly a hand appears and grabs his collar from the back. The pain in his shoulder is so paralyzing that John just tries to be completely still. It doesn't even occur to him that the person who's now dragging him somewhere could possibly be hostile. 

Suddenly he realizes they're not moving anymore. There are still fingers in his neck, but they've gone slack. Despite the pain that feels like his arm is being ripped away from his torso John turns his head and meets the glazed, lifeless eye of one of his comrades. The man is lying next to him without his helmet, a sizable hole in his forehead oozing dark red blood, fingers still in John's collar. 

John coughs and gasps and manages to rock himself away from the dead man. Then he just lies there, unable to move, unable to save himself, unable to get anywhere.

He doesn't know how much time passes, minutes or none at all.

The clouds stop moving. Everything becomes silent.

Time itself seems to stand still.

John closes his eyes and just breathes, until he hears the flutter of wings.

Suddenly the pain is gone. He opens his eyes and reaches out an arm. A shadow covers the sun and black wings surround him like a cocoon.

"Not you," a familiar voice says, "I'll not have it, you hear me."

John lets his body go lax. "Sherlock--"

"Shush."

Fingers entwine into his. "This is cruel," Sherlock's seemingly disembodied voice says, and John knows the words are not directed at him. "He was the only one who wasn't a completely useless--- I _know_. You told me. I'm not doing this. You can fucking keep it all. Let him have it and let me back down. Let him have mine. It's not fair."

Time passes. How long, John doesn't know or particularly care. He hears distant voices but can't make out any further words. 

Slowly, life begins to trickle back into him. The pain returns last, and with it full awareness of his surroundings.

The scorching sun. His gear belt digging into his flank. The pain. All the pain. 

Get up. Fight. It fucking hurts but it'll keep you alive. Getupgetup right now.

John crawls. He crawls until there isn't an ounce of strenght left in him, and even then he crawls some more. Finally, a pair of strong arms reach around his chest and pull him into a waiting humvee. John feels like crying but the desert wind has wrung him too dry to do even that.

 

 

 **Eight months later**  
**London, England**

John's shoulder aches as he leans on his cane while negotiating the familiar halls of St Bartholomew's Hospital. He trails behind his old friend and colleague Mike Stamford into the organic chemistry laboratory, 

When John enters the large room, there he is. Him. Sitting on a stool in front of a microscope. 

Mike stretches out his hand towards the immaculately dressed man at the opposite end of the room. "John, this is ---"

Their eyes meet.

"Sherlock," John gasps.

Mike Stamford tries to initiate small talk for awhile, but when he realizes that nobody is listening and there's something going on that he is not going to be privy to no matter how hard he tries, he excuses himself and leaves.

John strides closer, suddenly forgetting his cane completely. "What was it?"

Sherlock Holmes leans away from his microscope. "What was what?"

"Don't evade. You figured it out. They'd not have let you return otherwise. What was this puzzle, this secret to humanity you were supposed to find?"

"Selflessness."

John stares at him. "How--- How did you solve it?"

"I didn't. You showed me that night in Kandahar. I couldn't figure it out then, but since angels don't eat or sleep, watch television or do anything else wasteful with their time, I had a lot of time to think when not working. Sat alone on mountaintops, mostly. It just finally occurred to me at some point. I was preparing to demand for a hearing to argue my case but then those bloody bastards sent me out to get you. You, of all the useless idiots who could have possibly gotten killed in that damned war, it had to be you. And that was the perfect opportunity to test out my new theory."

John suddenly feels a need to lean on the countertop for strenght. "You--- You came back -- for me?"

"Well not just you. They gave me a choice. Since I'd cracked this whole riddle thing they would have let me in on a trial period, or sent me back down to have another crack at this humanity thing."

John doesn't know what to say.

Sherlock hops down from his stool, straightens his trousers and looks at John with a hopeful smile. "Anyway, here we are, then. I hear you might be looking for a flatmate?"

 

 

\- The End -


End file.
